Closer
by itsjustsilver
Summary: There is something wrong with Hermione. Dramione a/b/o (Alpha Draco, Omega Hermione) AU- no Voldemort. Draco Malfoy is much older than Hermione in this fic. Dark story. Will contain non-con at some point. Read at your own risk.
1. Chapter 1

Warning: This is a dark story that will contain dub-con/non-con. Do not proceed if you do not wish to read such content.

* * *

The library's become somewhat of a zoo. The Bulgarian Quidditch player, the one everyone's obsessing about, is in there all the time, and hordes of students have decided that they too need to be revising.

I really don't want to go, but I'm missing some information on the properties of dragon liver, and I need it to finish my Potions essay. It's due in a week, and I don't like to leave things to the last minute.

The Quidditch player stands and heads out of the Great Hall. He's immediately followed by a swarm of people. Grimacing, I down my drink and stand also. It looks like he might be heading outside; if I'm lucky, I can be in and out of the library in an hour and evade all of them.

"Where are you _going_?" Someone yanks on my arm.

I look down at Parvati. "To the library," I hiss. "I need to work on the Potions essay."

"Which essay? The one we were given just this afternoon?" She groans. "Hermione, no one else is in the mood to study right now."

That's not true. I'm in the mood.

"Speaking of moods, she's ruining the one here," Ron says unkindly. Seamus chuckles. Harry is playing with a snitch he likely stole and is looking wistfully in the direction the famous player has disappeared to.

I roll my eyes at him and go.

The library is quiet. I'd forgotten how much I miss the silence. With the addition of students from two visiting schools, the castle hasn't been this quiet since the beginning of the school year. Some OWLs and NEWTs students are occupying the study tables in the heart of the Potions section and I stay a respectful distance from them, scouring the shelves as unobtrusively as I can. I'm looking for recently published books, ones that take into account Professor Dumbledore's discourse on the twelve uses of dragon blood. I pull out a promising title.

[Regulating Hormone Imbalance in Mid-Weight Dragons]

"Liver," I whisper into the spine, and the number '56' appears engraved into it for an instant before disappearing. 56 mentions of liver in this book. Promising indeed. I flip to the first glowing page.

"May I have a word with you?"

I jump, swear lightly, drop the book, and swear again. Then I turn around.

The famous Quidditch player has snuck up behind me. Alone, and looking as though he's just shed a disillusionment charm. He's still semi-transparent around the edges.

"I'm sorry if I scared you," he apologises. He has a very thick accent. I'm not even sure if I'm hearing everything he's saying correctly.

I glare at him suspiciously, looking over his shoulder for signs of his followers. There are none. He must have finally gotten sick of them and taken to walking around invisibly.

"How can I help you?" I whisper.

"I'm Viktor." He offers me his hand to shake.

I take it, still peering around him. "Hermione. You're not supposed to be invisible in Hogwarts."

I know he's not technically a student here, but still… It's forbidden for a reason.

"I'm sorry if I scared you," he says again, and takes a step back. "I hope I'm not offending you by being so direct, but, I'd like to know how you're hiding it."

"Hiding what?" I frown up at him. He's frowning also. But then he always looks like he's frowning, so I'm unsure.

He gestures at me. "You. What you are."

This is a very strange conversation, and it's making me feel uncomfortable, but there is at least a dozen 5th and 7th year students nearby so I'm not too worried.

"If you mean hiding the fact that I'm muggle-born, you should know we don't generally have a sign on our forehead declaring us as such. Now if you'll excuse me." I pick up the fallen book. It's stopped glowing.

He's still standing there, looking dumbstruck. Maybe it's the first time someone's stood up to him, but if he thinks he can do wonky faints and get away with being rude, it's time he was taught otherwise.

"You don't know," he says, wonderingly. Then, his face breaks out into a secretive smile. "You don't know how beautiful you are."

I blush immediately, feel myself blushing, and blush some more. My eyes flit around. Is this a prank?

"Hermione," he says, voice deepening, "You are the most beautiful girl I have ever seen."

His voice makes something uncurl in my belly. He takes a step forward. I feel rooted to the spot.

"You'll go with me to the Yule Ball next week," he says, in an even deeper, lower voice. His eyes lock to mine.

I nod dumbly.

"Good." His voice returns to normal. He grins and winks at me. "See you soon, Hermione."

I stay standing in the same spot for a while after he leaves before I remember what I'm supposed to be doing.

"Liver."

The pages glow.

The Yule Ball is tomorrow.

I know, because I've been counting down the days in nervous anticipation. Along with everyone else. Ron finally asked Lavender to go with him, but seeing as he only asked her last night, after rumours that he had been publicly rejected by the Beauxbatons Champion, she really shouldn't be as happy as she currently is.

Nobody has asked me if I have a date, and I haven't told anyone. Sometimes it feels like a dream, or a big joke. But I bought a dress anyway. It was very expensive because I had to have it custom-made at the last minute. My parents didn't mind. It's a dark pink and reminds me of flower petals.

There's a tapping on the window. An owl looks balefully in at us, feathers white against the sky.

One of the boys go to open it. Neville. He takes the letter.

"It's for Hermione," he says, walking over to hand it to me.

Everyone stares. "Who's sent you a letter? _At night?_" asks Lavender, sitting up with interest.

I shrug and put down my quill. "Thanks Neville." I rip the envelope open. Parvati reads aloud over my shoulder. "Wear your hair up tomorrow," she squeaks breathlessly. "Who's V?"

I'm blushing again. That just makes it worse.

Lavender leans over then snatches the slip of paper from my hands. She shrieks excitedly. "Who's V, Hermione?"

The boys are rolling their eyes and going back to their Quidditch talk. Harry looks at me for a moment like he's seeing something that concerns him.

I'm so proud, I think. Walking into the Great Hall on the arm of the most famous Quidditch player in the world, everyone looking. I'm busy trying not to trip, and smiling nervously at no one and nothing in particular, but I can see them goggling at us out of the corners of my eyes.

Viktor's prouder, smugger, and acting like he's the one showing me off. Like he's seen something in me no one else has. And I want to believe that, that finally someone sees that under all my struggle to belong to this world, I am still a girl, a proper girl, but he has this mischievous grin on his face like he _had_ seen something in me, and he was showing it off- not me, but the fact that he had found me.

We descend the stairs.

"I like your hair," he says to me. It's piled up on the top of my head in smooth curls. It took hours to achieve this. There are some permanent measures I can take to make it stay smooth and straight, but I kind of like my hair the way it is.

"Thanks." I look at him. He's in burgundy and has a fur cape draped around one shoulder. I wouldn't have thought him my type, but he asked me, and here we are. He's really very handsome, I think, in a rugged kind of way. "I- uh, I like your cape."

People are whispering. Some crane their necks. Some are even standing. They look floored, like they'd seen something they once thought mythical. They can't believe their famous Quidditch keeper has me, the resident swot, for a date. I can't blame them. I can hardly believe it myself.

Viktor steers me towards the other champions all already waiting in the middle of the Great Hall, right in front of the row of dressed-up professors and ministry officials. None of them look very happy. Professor Karkaroff is placating the Minister of Magic. He gestures slowly with open hands. "I can assure you there is no malicious intent…" I hear him say, before the music begins and we are swept into the first waltz.

"What's happening there, you think?" I ask Viktor, as we go through the motions. He laughs a full-throated laugh and spins me.

"They're not very happy with me."

"What did you do?" I ask. He'd probably been caught prowling around invisible. I did warn him. But then, even that wouldn't have involved the Minister of Magic. Whatever he did had to have been really out of line.

He appears to think for a moment, and then says, "They think I stole something."

I'm flabbergasted, and falter through the next few steps. I spot Lavender and Ron amongst the blur of staring faces. Lavender is whispering in his ear.

"That would be a serious accusation!"

He laughs again, and spins me again, and when we come together again, my hand resting on his arm, I giggle a little. His laughter is contagious. "Don't joke about such things. You didn't actually steal anything, did you?"

"Finders keepers," he says cryptically, wearing a wide smile. He looks a lot less moody when he smiles.

"Ha ha. Very funny. I know you play Keeper and all, but I highly doubt that sort of childish excuse will hold up in court."

It's his turn to look flabbergasted. "I'm a seeker, Hermione."

"Seeker, finder, stealer, however you want to name it…"

"No. What? No! I play Seeker. In Quidditch."

"Oh, I'm sorry," I apologise sincerely. I may not care for the game, but I know it's important to him. The tempo of the waltz is slowing, and we follow suit. "Well, what do they think you stole?"

"You," he says. The song ends. We separate and bow to each other, and as the first smatterings of applause begins, he puts his thumb in his mouth, sucks on it, and then rubs it quickly along my collarbone.


	2. Chapter 2

I recoil, shocked and disgusted. Gasps intersperse with the clapping, which dies off quickly.

"What are you doing?" I try not to sound too alarmed; there are people watching, but I'm confused and not a little angry. I really want to wipe at my collarbone, but I don't want to touch his spit.

Viktor is smirking down at me, which distresses me further.

Professor McGonagall comes to my rescue. She's followed by Professor Karkaroff and a ministry official. The official is wringing his hands. "Mr. Krum, Ms. Granger," says Professor McGonagall, "If I may have a word."

We leave the dance floor. The orchestra picks up in volume and couples trickle in in our wake.

Professor Karkaroff is jabbering at Viktor in a low whisper in their own language. He sounds angry. Viktor replies him in short grunts. I can feel where he's wiped his thumb on me, I can _feel_ it.

When we turn into a corridor, long and empty of curious eyes, I begin to scratch at my collarbone, attempting to use the sleeve of my dress to reach it, still averse to having any more skin make contact with his spit. Tears burn my eyes. "I'm sorry Professor," I begin, but I don't really know what to say. What am I sorry for? What _happened_?

"Not here," Professor McGonagall interrupts, and I fall silent.

She pushes open a door along the corridor. It's an unused classroom. There are already a whole host of people waiting, mostly ministry officials. The Minister of Magic is there. So is Madam Pomfrey, who is deep in discussion with an old wizard wearing the insignia of a Healer.

They all hush when we enter before descending upon us like a swarm of bees.

"My dear," says Minister Fudge. "Why did you not report yourself? It's illegal to conceal your status, you know."

I stare, uncomprehending. Is he addressing Viktor? Is he addressing me? Just what is happening?

"Now, Minister," says Professor McGonagall. "As upset as I am that Miss Granger has chosen to out herself in such a public fashion, I think the law intended for the parents of the child to do the reporting, not the child herself."

'Well? Where are the girl's parents then?" demands a tall official in bright yellow robes. "Can we call them in for questioning? Minister?"

"I'm a muggle-born." I haven't been concealing my status. And anyway, I didn't think it mattered, being muggle-born.

No one hears me. They're talking amongst themselves as though I'm not there.

"I believe the girl is a muggle born," injects Percy Weasley eagerly. He's now aide to the Minster. "She's one of my brother Ron's close friends."

I wrinkle my nose. Ron isn't a close friend, not by a long shot, but I finally understand why he appears to loathe Percy so much.

"Thank you Mr. Weasley," snaps Professor McGonagall. "I believe that's common knowledge here in Hogwarts."

Viktor butts into the circle forming inconspicuously around me. It looks like he's finished arguing with his Headmaster. Ignoring glares, he sweeps me against his chest protectively. His cape covers my shoulders. Others tsk and cluck their tongues disapprovingly but make no move to separate us, not even Professor McGonagall, who I know loathes such gestures; I saw her take house-points off Hufflepuff when she caught Ernie and Tamsin holding hands in class.

Embarrassed and angry, I blush and wriggle away, but Viktor wraps an arm around me to tap on the hollow of my collarbone. "Stop moving," he growls. I stop, surprised.

"She's not for you," someone calls out.

Minister Fudge raises a mollifying hand, then crosses his arms and scowls at us. "We don't want an international incident, Mr. Krum. When you signed the Triwizard Contract you were made aware that you have to abide by the laws of-"

I've had it. "I don't think there's any law prohibiting people from dancing with whomever they please."

Viktor pushes a finger in the hollow of my collarbone again. "Quiet."

I quiet. I can feel my pulse against his finger. It's strangely calming. I turn my face into the warm fur lining of his cape and breathe in the smell.

More sounds of indignation break out.

"She didn't know," growls Viktor, in his halting English. "It's not her fault."

"Viktor was just having his fun," Professor Karkaroff joins in. "He's promised to another back home. There won't be any problem."

"That was fun at our expense," another ministry official grumbles. "He's marked her. The list will be displeased if they were to find out. And how could she not know? Healer Hewett, perhaps you'll want to examine her…"

Viktor adjusts his cape around me. I want to burrow into the soft fleecy warmth and never emerge. "I don't want her to be scared."

I'm not scared. I'm confused.

"Alright, Mr. Krum. We'll need assurances from you, obviously. Let's continue discussions while we have her inspected by the Healers."

"Hermione," says Viktor, drawing me out. "Go with your ministry Healers. I'll come get you later and we can go back to the ball."

I nod. I follow the healers with Madam Pomfrey staying close behind me.

The door shuts behind us.

There's something wrong with me. There's something wrong.

"What do you smell?" asks a Healer in blue. She holds up a little cup with white potion in it.

I smell nothing and tell her so.

It's not the right answer. Her wand confirms it- the light it's emitting remains a neutral blue. It's been blue for the past five minutes.

"What is 'nothing'? Describe for me please."

The absence of smell- nothing. I smell nothing at all.

"What do you smell?" Another cup. Another potion, odourless.

The healer is piqued. "Please don't lie to us, Miss Granger," she says. "It makes our job much more difficult."

"Miss Granger wouldn't lie," says Madam Pomfrey, looking at me kindly. She takes another cup of potion. She reads the label. "Hm. Here. Try this. Does it smell good? Bad?"

I smell nothing. I start to cry. "Does this mean I'm not a witch?"

"This is an anomaly," confirms the old wizard who's been observing, the one named Hewett. "Are you on any potions, Ms. Granger?"

"No, nothing…"

They confer amongst themselves while I sit miserably in a pink cloud of tulle on an observation platform hovering above the ground.

"Perhaps we can bring Mr. Krum in. The compulsions were clearly effective…"

"If it's possible. My feeling is they won't allow them in the same room anymore. They won't take their chances…"

Madam Pomfrey looks back at me. Her wand swishes upwards and silence, heavy and instant, descends like a veil between us. I can no longer hear what they're saying.

"I need Viktor," I say loudly. I don't, not really, but irrational fear is spiking in me and I feel suddenly that he's my only ally in the whole world.

Can they hear me? I slide off the platform, panicked. "I'm going to go find him."

The silence is lifted.

"Please have a seat, Miss Granger," says the wizened Healer Hewett. "We're not done carrying out tests."

"I didn't agree to these tests. Where's Professor McGonagall? Where's the Headmaster? Where's _Viktor_?"

"Sit down, Granger," orders Madam Pomfrey. "Healer Moore will fetch your Head of House and see if we can request Mr. Krum's presence."

I nod gratefully. "Thanks Madam Pomfrey."

The Healer in blue slips out.

"If I may," says Healer Hewett, approaching me and gesturing to his own throat. "Chin up please."

I lift my chin. He pokes and prods at my throat, my collarbone, and the space between neck and shoulder. "Does this hurt? Does this? Any tenderness? And here? What about here?"

No, no, no.

But there's a strange sensation in the place where Viktor had rubbed his spit into, and it's not one I can accurately describe. I want to wash it out with soap and water.

Healer Moore returns with Professor McGonagall and a large burgundy shearling-lined cape hanging over one arm. "Mr. Krum can't be here right now." The cape is deposited in my lap. "He says he'll try and visit you later. He left you this in the meantime."

I draw it over myself like a blanket. It's long and heavy and comforting.

"What do you smell?"

There's no cup of potion. I shrug. "The cape? I don't know. It smells… nice, I suppose."

The wand-light is flickering into a weak red before I've even finished my sentence.

"Well that's somewhat reassuring I suppose," says Healer Hewett. He turns to Professor McGonagall. "I'd like to keep her for observation for a few days, if you don't mind."

"Does Viktor have a disease?" I ask. Have I caught some kind of magical disease? Did he infect me with his saliva? It's the only explanation I can think of for what's going on now.

"No, Miss Granger, you have not caught a disease." Professor McGonagall looks uncomfortable. Her mouth is a thin line, and her arms are crossed. Speaking to the Healer, she says, "You'll need Miss Granger's permission or her parents. Dumbledore is already contacting them as we speak."

"I don't mind," I say quickly. I want just as much to find out what's wrong with me.

Professor Dumbledore sweeps in minutes later. He's still wearing his silver satin dress robes. "Ah, is this the student in question?" he asks, twinkling kindly down at me. "I understand, Miss Granger, that you may have some questions."

I nod fervently. "Yes Professor. What is happening? What is wrong with me? No one will explain anything."

"That is one of the most deplorable situations to find oneself in, I think," he says seriously. "I remember just a few years ago, I was having dinner with a very good friend of mine, Nicolas, and he wouldn't stop alluding to a certain powdered-"

There was some throat clearing from both Professor McGonagall and Madam Pomfrey.

"Ah yes. Miss Granger, you must understand that absolutely nothing is wrong with you at all. Indeed, what you are is a very special kind of witch."

My breath catches at this. _Special?_ Special _how_?

"Now this is traditionally a conversation that takes places between the witch and her parents, but your parents are muggles and were not cognizant of your designation." Dumbledore pauses. "It is a very irregular situation. They have just been made aware and have chosen to continue in the vein of tradition and be the ones to have the… _talk_ with you when you go home for the holidays. In the meantime, your school year should proceed as normal."

"But Professor," I protest. "How can my parents explain what sort of witch I am if they barely even know what a regular witch is?" Normally I would be gratified by their enthusiasm for the magical world and their willingness to embrace its norms, but the idea of having to wait months to obtain second hand knowledge is aggravating at best.

"If you're still dissatisfied after, you may approach your Head of House," says Dumbledore. He turns to Healer Moore who is doing some throat-clearing of his own.

"By Nicolas, you mean to say _the_ Nicolas? Nicolas Flamel?" the Healer enquires interestedly. "Go on and finish your story, Albus…"


	3. Chapter 3

"Well that's somewhat reassuring I suppose," says Healer Hewett. He turns to Professor McGonagall. "I'd like to keep her for observation for a few days, if you don't mind."

"Does Viktor have a disease?" I ask. Have I caught some kind of magical disease? Did he infect me with his saliva? It's the only explanation I can think of for what's going on now.

"No, Miss Granger, you have not caught a disease." Professor McGonagall looks uncomfortable. Her mouth is a thin line, and her arms are crossed. Speaking to the Healer, she says, "You'll need Miss Granger's permission or her parents. Dumbledore is already contacting them as we speak."

"I don't mind," I say quickly. I want just as much to find out what's wrong with me.

Professor Dumbledore sweeps in minutes later. He's still wearing his silver satin dress robes. "Ah, is this the student in question?" he asks, twinkling kindly down at me. "I understand, Miss Granger, that you may have some questions."

I nod fervently. "Yes Professor. What is happening? What is wrong with me? No one will explain anything."

"That is one of the most deplorable situations to find oneself in, I think," he says seriously. "I remember just a few years ago, I was having dinner with a very good friend of mine, Nicolas, and he wouldn't stop alluding to a certain powdered-"

There was some throat clearing from both Professor McGonagall and Madam Pomfrey.

"Ah yes. Miss Granger, you must understand that absolutely nothing is wrong with you at all. Indeed, what you are is a very special kind of witch."

My breath catches at this. _Special?_ Special _how_?

"Now this is traditionally a conversation that takes places between the witch and her parents, but your parents are muggles and were not cognizant of your designation." Dumbledore pauses. "It is a very irregular situation. They have just been made aware and have chosen to continue in the vein of tradition and be the ones to have the… _talk_ with you when you go home for the holidays. In the meantime, your school year should proceed as normal."

"But Professor," I protest. "How can my parents explain what sort of witch I am if they barely even know what a regular witch is?" Normally I would be gratified by their enthusiasm for the magical world and their willingness to embrace its norms, but the idea of having to wait months to obtain second hand knowledge is aggravating at best.

"If you're still dissatisfied after, you may approach your Head of House," says Dumbledore. He turns to Healer Moore who is doing some throat-clearing of his own.

"By Nicolas, you mean to say _the_ Nicolas? Nicolas Flamel?" the Healer enquires interestedly. "Go on and finish your story, Albus…"

Three days of observation at St Mungo's later, I'd come back to the news that Viktor Krum had withdrawn from the Triwizard Tournament, citing Quidditch commitments, and returned to Bulgaria. It leaves me with a sudden and acute feeling of sadness and betrayal. I don't know why; it's not like we were even dating.

To distract myself, I go to the library. Even though Professor Dumbledore assured me that I was not sick, I don't quite believe him. Why else would the Healers have wanted to conduct tests on me? They had not only been equally tight-lipped on my condition at the hospital but had in fact also quarantined me for the entire length of my stay.

This surely has something to do with the fact that I'm muggle-born?

But it becomes clear after thumbing through several books on magical maladies and infectious diseases: self-diagnosis is almost impossible if you're not even experiencing any symptoms.

Madam Pince is no help. When I ask her where I can find books about different types of witches, she only recommends books about pure-bloods and the Sacred Twenty-Eight families.

I give up the search.

"A Triwizard tournament with only two champions isn't as exciting is it?" Lavender rests her chin on her hand. We're seated in the stands above the lake, listening glumly as Bagman reports what the remaining champions are doing underwater.

"Well certainly not now that the most exciting champion's taken off." Rohesia sidles close. She's a Prewett, and a Ravenclaw, but she spends a lot of time with her Weasley cousins.

Ron agrees. "Diggory's a prat and the Beauxbatons' champion is boring." He's between Lavender and his cousin in the tier below me and doesn't seem pleased with the seating arrangement. "This is all your fault, Hermione," he complains, turning around to give me an unhappy look.

I roll my eyes at him. "How is it my fault, Ronald?" He hates when anyone calls him that, so it gives me great pleasure to see him wince.

Rohesia kicks him. "She's right, she can't help being herself. Be nicer _Ronald_. What if you're chosen to marry her?"

Bagman chooses that exact moment to announce Cedric's success at retrieving his hostage.

"WHAT?" Ron and Lavender and I exclaim all at once. Ron and I have gone deep shades of red.

The outburst attracts attention. Neighbouring Hufflepuffs shoot us angry glares. We all hastily rise with the crowd to clap and cheer.

"What's going on here, children?" The Weasley twins have joined us. They're wearing black and yellow scarves.

"Ron thinks he'll get Hermione," Rohesia offers, in between hollering and hooting.

Ron's spluttering. His ears are turning redder by the second.

The twins chortle. "Ickle Ronnikins hopes he'll present?"

"Why would he _get_ me?" I cry.

Fred laughs. "No need to be rude, Hermione. Although we all know you're pining for Krum-"

"Aren't we all?" says his twin mournfully.

"-there's already a long list. Ron could very well-"

"Weasley'll have to off quite a lot of people," a new voice cuts smoothly in. We look at the newcomer. Avery Gaunt, a dark haired Slytherin sixth year boy, who had clearly been passing through and overheard our conversation. Fred and George wear identical expressions of distaste.

"And you know that how? Been looking at the list yourself?" Fred asks.

"Probably already figured out how many people _he_ has to off. _If _he even presents," said George.

Avery sneers. "I'd pass anyway. Maybe the Weasleys don't mind but Gaunts only marry pure-bloods."

Everyone laughs jeeringly at that, even Lavender. Even the listening Hufflepuffs. I'm way too confused to be offended.

"Hard not to only marry pure-bloods if you only have pure-bloods to pick from," says Harry. He's carrying a large glass of butterbeer from wherever he managed to sneak it from and is picking his way towards us, trying not to spill any of the liquid. He's followed by Neville and Cetus.

"What," I elucidate, trying to be as patient as possible, "are you all ON about?"

"Hi," says Cetus. "It's true. They all think they know what they want until they present. Like my father, apparently."

"Your father?"

"The illustrious Lord Black," Neville drawls sarcastically.

"Don't let him hear you call him that," says Harry. "Anyway, if it ever comes to it that you only have muggle-borns to pick from, I'm sure I'll see you marrying a muggle-born." He grins at Gaunt. "Maybe even a mugg-"

"Don't you dare finish that sentence," hisses Gaunt.

I ignore him. "I know who Cetus's father is." Even the muggle-borns know who Sirius Black is. When Cetus was sorted into Slytherin, he came storming in the next day demanding a re-sort. It was very dramatic.

Now, normally I hate admitting I don't know something; I'm afraid of being looked down on. But the library has failed me, the adults have failed me, and everyone else clearly knows something I don't. I have to swallow my pride and ask my peers. "I don't understand. What are they presenting? What is this list?"

"What are they presenting?" repeats Cetus. He's literally looking down at me from where he's finally seated himself one tier above. "I- Are you- I still don't understand Gryffindor humour," he finally says, looking to Harry and Neville for help.

"Hermione…" Harry pierces me with that same concerned look I've seen on him, the night before the Yule Ball. "Hermione you do know what you are, right?"

I shake my head. "I'm a witch?" I say weakly. I know that's not what he means, but…

"Oh, she really doesn't know," says Rohesia quietly. Lavender has her hand over her mouth. The boys are looking at me wide-eyed.

"And this," declares Avery Gaunt, "is why I will be passing on muggle-borns even if I present." He walks off.

"Don't listen to him," says Fred.

"He's a git," adds George.

"You know what an Omega is?" asks Rohesia.

"Yes," I reply quickly, relieved to be back in familiar territory. I _do_ know this. "One of the symbols in Runes, frequently meaning the End, or the Ultimate, or even Destiny. Its origin is-"

"No, no… It's a type of witch."

It turns out that where the adults were reticent, my fellow schoolmates are more than willing to educate me.

"Very rare," Cetus adds. "Their counterpart is the Alpha."

"Always a wizard," Neville contributes. "Also rare."

"But not as rare as the Omegas. Who are getting _rarer_."

"If the wizard is an Alpha he presents at seventeen," Ron says. "Both Charlie and Bill presented. I dunno about the Omegas though…"

"Omegas present at puberty," says Rohesia.

"Ah." I am beginning to understand. "It's genetic then…"

Cetus nods. "It's usually confined to the pureblood families. I suppose that's why everyone was surprised when you presented."


	4. Chapter 4

I stare. I'd known where this conversation was leading to, I suppose, but it it's still a shock to hear. At least I now have a name for what I have. Or what I am, apparently.

Omega.

I can work with that, I think.

"And what makes them different?" I ask.

That's where everybody appears stumped or uncomfortable. Lavender giggles. Harry shrugs. Ron has a little crease in his forehead like he gets when he's asked to answer anything in class.

"They're just... different," says Cetus hesitatingly. "You should talk to your parents about this."

Cedric Diggory's head breaks through the surface of the lake. We all stand automatically and applaud. He makes his way slowly to shore, dragging Cho Chang with him; her long hair floating like seaweed in the water.

"There's a doomed romance there," Lavender snickers.

"You should probably talk to her." Rohesia leans down to speak in my ear as we watch Diggory wrapping the shivering girl in a thick towel. "She's the only Omega outside of Slytherin. Besides you of course."

The stands begin slowly emptying of people. After over an hour of sitting and staring at the lake, very few are interested in waiting for the judges' scoring, all confident that Diggory would receive high marks. Fleur Delacour hadn't even managed to rescue her sister.

"What sort of Champion gets trapped by _Grindylows_?" says Cetus scornfully. "I actually feel embarrassed for her."

The train compartment is overly crowded. There are ten of us in here, not counting six owls who all screech and hoot intermittently. I'm squished, open book in lap, between one of the Patil twins and the window looking out into the busy corridor.

We're almost at Hogwarts so everyone is occupied either changing into school robes or visiting compartments, catching up with friends and showing off the things they got over the summer. Through the smudged glass, I see Harry striding in our direction. The compartment door slides open and he barges in.

"Oy, where's my snitch?" he asks immediately. "I know one of you girls stole it. Dean told me."

He's met with a sea of innocent-looking faces.

"We didn't know you had a snitch, Harry," someone says. "It's not something you ever talk about." It's followed by a series of barely-suppressed giggles.

"Right," says Harry. He starts hauling random luggage off the racks, ignoring all the loud protesting. I move my knees out of the way. It's becoming impossible to read. One of the bags falls onto an owl cage. Its metal door springs open, and the bird flies out screeching madly. Someone throws themselves sideways, jostling me. My head hits the glass window.

"Argh!" I grunt, fed-up. "Stop it! It's with Ginny! Ginny's got your blasted snitch."

"Hermione!" Ginny cries. "Why'd you go and snitch on me for?"

There's more loud giggling. I ignore them; I've just seen Cho Chang walking down the corridor alone, and I've been wanting to catch her. I jump up and exit the compartment, squeeze past several second years, an annoyed trolley witch and her trolley stacked high with sweets and pastries, to tap Chang on the shoulder.

She looks over her shoulder and smiles politely. "Yes?"

I introduce myself. "Can I talk to you in private?" Something gold and shiny buzzes overhead and we flatten ourselves against the wall as a few boys hurtle past us. It would appear Harry's recovered his snitch. "Uh, later that is. When we get to school."

She raises an inquisitive brow. "I don't know if I'll have time later. Why don't we just talk now. The Prefects' carriage should still be empty." She pinks slightly. "I just came from there."

I remember that she's dating Cedric Diggory. "Alright."

We make our way to the end compartment and slide the door shut behind us. I've never been in here before. It's cleaner; the leather seats are less worn and there are no empty sweet wrappers in the corners. Strings of pennants displaying each House's crest hang from the ceiling. A pang of envy crosses my heart; I had been hoping to be made Prefect this year.

We seat ourselves facing each other. "I was hoping for some clarity," I begin. "On… on our situation."

The only thing I am sure about, with regard to Omegas, is that it appears to be a somewhat delicate subject.

Her face lights up with immediate understanding. "Who is it?" she asks.

_Who is what?_

"Never mind, you don't have to tell me. Whoever it is, are they already on the list? Obviously Cedric's not on it yet. But he'll present, I know it." I can hear the desperate hope in her voice.

"What is-" I rub my temples. "I'm sorry. Can you please explain from the beginning? I don't know anything about a list or presenting or who is or isn't on the list."

She stares. "Didn't your family tell you? Haven't you been matched yet?"

They had, in fact.

"_You're an Omega, Hermione!"_

That had been the gist of it.

"My family are muggles," I say. "They don't know anything. Can we start with what an Omega is?"

"Alright," she says slowly, wearing the uncomfortable look I've come to associate with this topic. "Omegas are a type of witch."

I could scream.

"Go on," I prompt, forcing myself to remain calm. "What's wrong with them? Why does no one want to talk about them?"

She frowns. "You mean _us_. Well, it's like talking about sex. But weirder." She sits up straighter. "Right, you know how you can tell if someone is an Omega or an Alpha by their smell?"

I shake my head no. Things are beginning to make sense. All those tests at the hospital, and everyone assuming I already knew I was different. "Smells… We smell?" My nose scrunches in distaste. "That sounds… gross. Do I smell right now?"

She frowns again. "It's not gross. And you do smell. I mean you smell nice-" She sighs frustratedly. "It's hard to explain, and it's strange that you can't tell. That's a pretty big part about being an Omega. Maybe you just don't know what it is you're smelling." She purses her lips quickly to one side. "What do I smell like to you?"

"Um. I don't know. I can't really smell anything from here," I say. "Is it probable that everyone's made a mistake?"

"You smell like Omega to me." She shrugs. "Try coming closer."

I cross the short distance between us and bend my head close to her. This is weird. "Maybe shampoo?" I guess, squinting in concentration. "Roses?"

"Yeah that's my shampoo." She laughs. "I think you're the first person to actually notice I use rose shampoo. Everyone else just smells Omega. Try smelling my neck." She loosens her blue-and-bronze tie and pulls her hair into a ponytail.

"Okay." This is_ very_ weird. I lean closer. "What exactly am I supposed to be-"

The door slides open with a startling bang and I scoot backwards.

"Kinky," someone comments. Avery Gaunt stands in the doorway, arms folded. A green and gold badge glints on his chest. "Hm. I didn't know they let Omegas become Prefects nowadays."

My jaw drops. "_You're_ the new Head Boy?" Of all the unfair things in the world. "And why wouldn't they let Omegas be Prefects?" I add in indignation.

He begins laughing, almost howling with uncontained mirth. "Who would listen to them?" he manages in between gasps of laughter.

"Oh sod off, Gaunt," Cho Chang snaps.

It only makes him laugh harder. Finally, he straightens. "This is _my_ carriage," he says. He points accusingly at me. "You. I've heard enough about you from my family this summer to last a lifetime." His finger moves to Cho Chang. "And you. Don't think I don't know what you and Diggory get up to in here. Both of you out now."

A witch and wizard gripping hands smile falsely at me from the front of their shiny pamphlet. 'MALFOY GLOBAL ASSET MANAGEMENT' reads the bold green heading.

"I've read this three times over and I still don't know what it is they do." Lavender's face is hidden behind the pamphlet, but I imagine she looks annoyed.

"Our dad works there," says Parvati. "And even I don't know what he does."

"Manage assets, probably," says Ron sagely, mouth bulging with potatoes. Almost all the Gryffindors had their Careers Advice appointment with Professor McGonagall today. The remainder are due to see her on Monday. I haven't received the note with my appointment time yet, but really I'm too busy revising to remind her.

Lavender folds the pamphlet with a sigh. She picks up another one. "Black and Malfoy Apothecaries," she reads out loud. "A global potions company based in London. At Black and Malfoy Apothecaries we strive to set the standard for quality, safety, innovation… urgh." She puts down that pamphlet too. "This is really stressful. I wish somebody would just decide for me."

"Your OWL results will probably decide for you," I say, shutting _'Core Principals of Animal Physiology for the NEWT Transfiguration Student'_ with a snap.

Ron snatches it from my hands. "Why are you reading a NEWT textbook?" he demands. "You don't even need to take the NEWTs."

"Nobody _needs_ to take the NEWTs, Ron," I say nastily, taking back the book and stuffing it into my bag. "_You_ certainly won't be taking them, at the rate you're going. They're not going to let you copy from me in the exams, you know."

I swing my leg over the bench and depart hastily before Ron can think of a comeback. Lavender's already reading from another brochure. "Oo this one's a fashion brand!" she squeals excitedly. "Maison Malfoy, a family-run multi-national… wow, do the Malfoys own everything?"

The steady scratching of quills on parchment fills the small circular room. I pause my own writing to appreciate it; I think it might be my favourite sound in the world. Around me my classmates whisper to each other under their breath. We're technically supposed to be solving a problem alone, but it's clearly confusing people.

Professor Vector is reading a magazine upside down. On the blackboard beside her, she's written out the problem in chalk. I read it for the fifth time.

**'Jack is planning the optimum time to meet Rose for a date in London. He knows that Rose is twenty-five years old and an only child. If Jack has calculated that their date must take place at seven thirty-five PM on a Friday during the waning gibbous lunar phase when the moon is 72% illuminated and at latitude: 0° 59' North, Longitude: 132° 10' East, when was Jack born?'**

I bite my cheek, attempting to add numbers in my mind, and bend my head to scribble the necessary equations, whispering also. "Kappa, epsilon, omicron, beta…"

My partner, Daphne Greengrass, yawns audibly and puts her blonde head in her arms. Normally I sit beside Padma Patil but she's been excused for Careers Advice with Professor Flitwick. Arithmancy is a very small class and they've combined all the houses for it.

I sneak a glance at her calculations and immediately spot the glaring error. "The moon position's a red herring," I whisper, unable to keep myself from correcting her.

She lifts her head. "What?"

"The moon position's not relevant to his birthyear." No wonder people are having trouble with the problem. They're probably making the same mistake.

"Oh!" She perks up. "Thanks."

"Yeah no problem," I smile wryly, watching her cross out the wrong equations. "Didn't make sense that he would be thirty-nine, did it?"

"Sure," Daphne snorts, casting me an odd look. We resume writing, and after some time, she pauses to give me another look. "I'm really impressed you can still find it in yourself to care. But I suppose he's letting you continue after your OWLs?"

I lower my quill and give her a quizzical glance. "Who?"

She returns the expression. "Your fiancé? Who is he by the way? I haven't seen an official announcement."


	5. Chapter 5

Thanks to all who have been following Closer, and thanks especially to those who left reviews.

Unfortunately, I have decided to stop posting on this website.

If you liked Closer and want to keep reading it, it is available on Archive of our Own under the same title and same author name. I will continue to update my stories on AO3.

You can also click on this link to read the next chapter:

/works/17080448/chapters/42026162

You can also communicate with me here:

/itsjustsilver


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